Ich Bin Nicht Verrückt
by KayosHybrid
Summary: A series of drabbles exploring some examples of mental health. Or Ludwig's lack thereof. AUs of schizophrenia, OCD and PTSD.
1. Chapter 1

This fic has been in progress for over a month. I'd written 3 chapters of it already, but wanted to finish the planned 5 to keep going. Laptop broke, yada yada, got bored of these sitting around and gathering dust. I'm still going to write the other 2-3 chapters planned since they have some of the best prompts, but I figure I'll get some material out to keep generating feedback and fuel my energies back into writing! The ficlets fluctuate over amounts of angst and length where appropriate, but remember, _they are all _drabbles. Many don't have relation to each other in timeframe, relationships, etc. They're just a compilation of ideas with the same sort of theme, so I've compiled them together for your easier enjoyment.

Enjoy.

* * *

Bottom floor.

Front door. Twice. Both locks, top and bottom. Tug on the handle to make sure the locks are functioning properly.

Moves onto the kitchen. Wrestle with the lock to make sure it is in place properly. Unlock, then lock again. Give another tug to make sure it's wedged. Move onto the 3 others windows and repeat. Draw the curtains.

Living room. Repeat process to the 2 windows, sweeping the coffee and side-tables to make sure no valuables are strewn about. Draw the curtains firmly, tugging at them to make sure they evenly meet in the middle.

Move to storage room and make sure the door is firmly locked, no obstructions on the other side.

Check back door, securing both locks and tugging firmly on the knob. Do this twice.

Move back into the hallway adjoining the staircase, striding to the front door to listen for a working burglar alarm, moving into the kitchen to test the smoke alarm, and giving the front door a final, bracing glance. Head upstairs.

First floor.

Go into office and make sure the desk is properly cleared, and the windows are secure and drawn curtains.

Do the same window routine with the bathroom, but without any curtains.

Ludwig wandered out of the bathroom, padding barefoot, when he heard someone climbing the stairs. He gazed over at it, and was met with the sight of his older brother blinking blearily like he'd just been woken. Ludwig blinked guiltily as red eyes glanced over as he approached, Gilbert's expression twisted in an uncharacteristic ghost of concern.

"Still doing it? Slamming windows and locks isn't the best pastime this late at night."

"I'm sorry I woke you."

"Are you done?"

"…Yes." _But it was always a yes._

"Feliciano found his way to your bed eventually, I don't know how he does it."

"…I figured."

"Feliciano probably snuck in before you started. You don't need to do anymore."

"I know." _But it didn't change anything._

Gilbert frowned, gazing at his brother, who only looked troubled as usual. Bags were tugging at his blue eyes, signalling the toll of his activity. Ludwig could always control how he appeared, his feet still and not at all restless, his gaze steady and body language calm. But Gilbert had long known his itch.

The brothers gazed at each other for a few moments, thoughts sluggishly tugging at their conscious, both varieties of tire and anxiety. They didn't know what to say, there was nothing they _could_ say. This was a routine they were both too aware of, and were both equally powerless to stop. This routine had gone on for as long as Gilbert could remember, that he lay awake some nights and could remember step for step his brother's direction and where he'd go next.

But he could never count how many times over.

There was a blink, and the silence was awkward. Exhausted minds snapped back to consciousness, away from their split thoughts; one of memories and one of compunction. Both of tire.

"Well, don't keep the Awesome Me up too long, though I don't really _need_ beauty sleep, I do sorta need it." Gilbert blurted out, looking unruffled, self-interested and unconcerned as usual. Ludwig's tired eyes crinkled a little in a moment of acceptance, of tired humour at his actions.

"Ja, gute Nacht, Bruder."

Gilbert muttered something about needing a piss before he could catch any more sleep, walking past his brother looking aloof and bothered he'd been woken up. He could easily see the crinkle smooth out around those crystalline eyes, bright in the dim corridor. Face troubled and haggard once more.

He turned away with a secret frown as he heard his brother hesitate, obviously tempted to go and get some rest. Like his brother had said. Like he had agreed he would.

But as Gilbert opened the bathroom door he didn't even need to look.

Ludwig went back downstairs.


	2. Chapter 2

In this chapter I deal with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It's very real, very common and can be extremely distressing, especially for recovering soldiers. It has little Obsessive Compulsive themes to churn up the mixture.

Enjoy.

* * *

Spring cleaning usually happened seasonally in any average German home. Or the average home, probably, across the world. It was something done every couple of months to catch up with any untidiness, clutter and mounting filth on the inside of appliances or any thickening dust on old shelving.

But not Ludwig's home.

This was the 2nd consecutive time he had initiated a thorough clean of his home this month.

His bedroom was the easiest, next to the bathroom. Both were very sparse, simple rooms that based their design entirely on simple needs. In his bedroom he slept, dressed and groomed himself. The bathroom was reserved for relieving himself and maintaining his hygiene. The bathroom required more attention and more products, but it too was always straight-forward.

Unlike his office, being one of the hardest places to clean, considering it also included organising every document, sorting his post from receiving to sending, file paperwork and cleaning the area. It was very tedious when everything had to be set back into 90 degree angles if he could help it, every piece of stationary put in the desk draw or displayed neatly on the desk surface. Doing so without having to misplace things for too long or make a mess while he rushed through it was very difficult and stressful.

Ludwig, decked out in a cleaning apron, gloves and supplies, entered the kitchen.

It often got very disorganised in here. Contaminated by bacteria from all manners of foods and substances, which were at risk of going-off should the room not be maintained. The surfaces having to endure hot trays, spitting oil from a frying pan, bubbling pasta sauce, flour, egg and spice and salt crystals on a regular basis. Peoples' health were also had serious risk.

He scrubbed dutifully at the kitchen counters like it was a crusade, blitzing through the floor, appliances and windows. Eventually, he put away his washcloth back into the bucket he was using, and paused. Ludwig trailed his hand to a more powerful degrading spray product, before tentatively turning his attention towards the one part of his home he dreaded.

Sitting between two counters was The Oven.

He stared at it, lungs shivering with hollow breathes as Ludwig efforted himself to keep breathing steadily, even while cold seeped through his veins from his core up into his head and down into his fingertips, eliciting a shudder.

He gripped the nozzled-product in his hand, lifting it from the table and picking up a rough scrubbing sponge.

The Oven grew in size as his feet shuffled forward, encroaching the distance until it was a mere few feet away.

Ludwig knelt, lifting a hand to grip the Oven handle, before tugging down and pulling it open.

The door dropped with his grip like a lower jaw, revealing a gaping, merciless maw. The rail trays were visceral and dirty against the raw blackness of the inside, the inside of the Oven door charred by burns and black splatters. He breathed out loudly and hastily began to scrub the door.

However no matter how much he roughly scrubbed at the surface to make sure nothing was left, he couldn't escape that it was clean in minutes. The scrubbing action slowed to nothing as blue eyes rose to peer into the dark, grimy space. The inside was in desperate need for attention. He slid out the rail trays and lay them on the floor.

His eyes fluttered and darted around the door in anxiety, feeling lightheaded, hands shifting and knees shuffling as he braced – before leaning a hand forward, lowering himself and easing his broad shoulders inside.

The dark loomed in around Ludwig's ears, like a serpent slipping his jaw over his head to swallow him whole. The inside was coated in a layer of mottled filth, charred, slimy and congealed. Signals of its neglect now very apparent, despite it being regularly used as well. The light from his kitchen was sucked backwards, making the darkness even more intimate, suffocating and impenetrabl—

_CLOSING THE DOOR. LOCKING. DROWNED VOICES BEHIND THE IRON. A SHOT RINGS OUT IN THE COURTYARD. THE CLAUSTROPHIC SPACE BURST INTO FLAMES—_

Ludwig let out a shriek and his body spasmed violently, banging his head sharply off the Oven roof and collapsing into the floor of it with a nasty series of crunches. The space seemed to only sweep down on him and feed off his distress, ferociously hungry and warming to his flesh. His head throbbed, his heart was racing; he gave a whimper as he struggled to breathe with a strained whine at every pant, sucking in ash, choking, coughing—

_SMOKE BILLOWED OUT THE TOP—_

– burnt food, littering the bottom, pressing into his cheek—

_FIRE CRACKLED, ASH BEING SIFTED INTO A BUCKET, REMNANT CHARRED BONES CRACKING AGAINST EACH OTHER—_

Ludwig gave a tormented scream and wrenched himself back, banging his head off the Oven mouth and falling bodily against the floor, scrambling wildly with a few panicked cries until he hit the table and the bucket was knocked and he was drenched in soapy water. The splash and clang of hollow metal as it hit the floor jolted him back, chest heaving and feet still kicking slightly in attempts to escape, sliding uselessly in the new-formed puddle.

He stared over his heaving chest, having to swallow a few times as he tried to control his frantic breathing, coming to, glancing around to confirm he was in his kitchen, at home. His heart slammed desperately to escape the cage of his ribs, absently worrying it would burst out of his flesh altogether. His eyes stung dully from the soap, he felt a natural feeling of cold descend on his body from being drenched.

The steady, soft sounds of droplets falling from his body and the table punctuated the quiet, soothing him.

He gave his appliance one last brave gaze, before he collapsed back onto the floor and his breath hitched painfully, turning onto his side and curling inward a little.

He lay in the half puddle under his kitchen table, and cried.

* * *

I found this chapter particularily interesting to do, because it was actually quite difficult. Managing the sudden hallucinations and extreme panic, extraordinary fear of a household object - its hard to pull off with the right weight. I'm still not sure I nailed just how strong the emotions are, but EH!


	3. Chapter 3

It was ok, he could go on for longer.

His hands worked furiously, wet and chafed.

Determined to keep going.

Anyone would have thought he was up to something perverse – slick splashing noises; steady, strained breathing – coming from the locked bathroom.

He scrubbed methodically and harsh at his hands.

The lather was cheap and in no way made his skin feel any better. Maybe he ought to purchase a better brand of soap. But with his diminishing financial situation, buying bulk with anything more than the industrial, cheap brand was likely going to end in sacrifice somewhere else in his household.

He had to watch for his water bill too. He did not reuse water on his skin, no matter how recyclable it is or how good for the environment it is. It could guarantee putting an end to all pollution and its effects in the world but Ludwig _will not_.

The tap was running, and the lather was washed away. Eyes stared and scrutinized as the tap gushed into the sink, cerulean raking over the dry, worn skin, red from endless, religious scrubbing. His fingernails were growing flimsy from the endless water, and his skin was too dry to be pruned. Around his thumb socket, finger joints, wrist and knuckles the skin was particularly raw and rubbed away, the skin prone to splitting open if he handled them too fast. He fingered at the peeling and the slight bleeding under a fingernail, fingering out the dead skin collected under it from the scraping he'd carry out.

He looked, and Hmph'd as he came to a conclusion.

He opened the bathroom drawer opposite his eyes, his mirrored self being sheared out of view as the little cupboard was opened. He took out a fresh bar of soap from the pile inside, closed the drawer, and pulled the solidified glob of hygiene out of its paper wrappings. The paper was tossed in the bin at his feet, the soap was put into his red palms, and he lathered them under the water.

The soap stung fiercely at his abused hands, but he didn't pay attention. It got suck under his nails and rubbed open a split over his third knuckle, but he didn't wince. The surface screamed in agitation as the lather rubbed into the open, bothered breaks in skin. Once he deemed there was enough bubbles for a successful clean, he dropped the contaminated bar of soap in the wastebasket at his feet with the rest he had used today.

He scrubbed religiously once again, digging between his fingers and deep into the palms and into all the creases where contamination may be hiding, even though the worst areas had long been sucked of moisture and become scaly and cracked. Every finger was meticulously scrubbed and lathered, his hands gripped and slipped and turned and rubbed together continuously.

But as his hands when under the water to then zealously rinse away any freshly dead skin, blood and dirt he'd uncovered, Ludwig could only frown. His hands didn't feel any better. He looked down and all he saw as the white lather was being washed away were two hands covered in a layer of grime. His face twisted in distress, pale eyes flicking between them both, imaginary filth coating every inch of terrible skin. People had seen his hands and looked scared too, Ludwig knew. He'd seen their expressions if they caught a glance. Fear and disgust. He had to clean them.

He wrenched the cupboard over again, shearing his frantic expression again, reaching for another bar of soap and putting the wrapping in the bin again. He worked more lather, staring at his hands covered in trench mud and soot and ash and filth and blood and tears and possibly excrement and any other kind of intolerable substance that should be thoroughly removed from his person. But no matter how much he bled or scrubbed, the feeling of filth remained. The feeling of unclaspable, unremovable filth. It dragged him down like swimming in the water with all his clothes on, it coated his body and made him feel slimy, grimy, grotesque. Made him feel coated in dirt and death and contamination. He was bound to make someone ill, or make them look at him with disgust or pity or hatred, bound to. It only made sense if someone straight out vomited for having awful skin like him, to be awful like him.

The grime hung low in his gut, lower than his stomach like a weight and brushing against his intestines. Even his innards ought to be bothered by the disgrace on the outside.

Ludwig hung his head as he panted, his motions becoming harsher and movements more frantic, elbows almost clanging off the porcelain. Disgraceful, humiliating, downright disgusting. Who'd want to be friends with someone like him? Someone as weird and disgusting and awful as him? Someone who was downright filthy with shame and guilt, wearing it like a dead man that ought not to have lived.

He hadn't cheated death. Well, not really. He'd cheated life.

Blood leaked out between the tiles in the bathroom, and Ludwig shook his head furiously, his hands working into a blur, schlick schlick sounds of his hands whirring. The blood trailed down the white and pooled down to web at his feet like elastic, crawling up as the blood mounted. He opened his eyes and looked and his hands and they were covered in blood too, drenched. The blonde's eyes widened, gasping out and thrusting his hands under the water again to rinse it frantically away.

His hands were on fire, but not really. He knew real fire. Shell explosion fire, Flammenwerfer fire, skeletons of buildings and everyone's children on fire. Fire crackling and people screaming, but no one's screaming anymore, not really. He'd know because the screams would echo around the tiles, like screams in the mountains, bouncing off the walls like the thoughts in his skull.

It's guilt and shame, guilt and shame, burn the witch, burn the heretic, burn it all away, burn everything you don't agree with. This nonexistent mantra rattled his head and made him sniffle, not registering the pain in his hands but the pain weighing on his body, on his insides. He tried not to think about burning, about fire, it made the filth stick to his hands harder, made him sweat and retreat. He was no coward though!

Water. Washing. It was the only thing he could do. He had used fire to destroy, destroy, to get rid of things. But it left behind ash and sickness and terror and an emptiness that was not _right_ or _clean_ or _tolerable._Heat to cold, from dirt to cleanliness. Yes. Order is restored.

Vom Feuer zum Wasser.

He was gasping now, the stinging sensation intense enough to garner his attention, his hands letting up as the tendons ached, both hands shaking pitifully in the bowl as he rested. Took a moment just to breath, reality sinking back in front of his eyes instead of a disgusted grey haze of smoke. He stared back at his reflection, bright eyes and mouth ajar from his panting, severe hair in a little of a disarray from his exertion.

Clarity pushed back the franticness squirming in his gut, and he frowned worriedly back at himself, distress creasing his brow and his eyes and his mouth. He wasn't insane. He glanced down to see his hands were still shaking. The tall, strong German man stood alone in his lonely, clean bathroom, hands shaking near the gushing water, injured and abused digits shivering above the bowl.

This time, almost everyday, the time indeterminable and not set in concrete, was his confrontation time. His alone time was his happy time, but not in here.

It was in here he came face to face with his sins. With his crimes. With all of the shame and humiliation and disgrace that littered his once proud and powerful name. Now he was nothing more than an introvert nation trying to buy back respect and friendship with the world. It looked like he was putting on all his environmental awareness and his openness to all ranges of alignments in sexuality, in his forgivingness to any mode of expression but his severity to discrimination. To everyone else it looked like he was scrambling pitifully for favour, begging 'I won't do it again, it was only a game, I'll make up for all those individual things you glorified in your textbooks'.

But as a young nation, that is all Ludwig was going to be known as now. For a long time. Almost forever. Until he forgot about it. Which he wouldn't, ever. Recovering from that ordeal, Ludwig began to slowly uncurl from his retreat to prove himself, to indulge and express himself, and it was interpreted as kissing ass.

Which he had to, or else he'd be known eternally as the dirty little Jew-Killing Nazi.

His stomach cramped violently at the thought and he jerked down a little, his expression growing more severe as he stared back at himself in upset. His mouth filled with a foul taste and he felt nauseous just at the thought. In a way, he did have to crawl about on his knees, still had to dance and reverse the order of his dark stereotype. Or all he'd get is contempt and snarls and sneers in his direction.

He sighed. A deliberate action to try to sort out his breathing into a healthier pattern, lest he exhaust himself or hyperventilate later on.

But he deserved it. Every jab, every sly little comment, every reference just for him, he deserved. It was penance. As a man, as a criminal and as a disgrace, it was his duty to take responsibility for his actions.

It wasn't just his duty. He wasn't just a soldier. He looked back in the mirror, and he was sure he didn't look _just_ a soldier. He was a man, he half played an instrument thanks to Roderich. He liked to read and construct and spend quality time alone, and with any friend who permitted it. Roderich was good with performances and sharing fondness to baking (one he kept a private hobby), maybe even doing something mildly slobbish like gaming (rare) or drinking (often) with his brother. And all kinds of little excursions Feliciano initiated that warmed his core with gratitude and wonder. That was more than just a heartless soldier, right?

He wasn't heartless, or remorseless. He hadn't really needed the years of humiliation and abuse from the world but…it was part of the package. His internal abuse was enough, and his hands spoke for themselves. But only at times of utter, unbreakable rationality could Ludwig look at his hands and see something was very, very off.

Ludwig stared at the shaking appendages and wondered when the grime would finally rub off. When he would finally not feel so uncomfortable in his own skin, like he'd wandered into land he wasn't permitted, or violated an important rule. That general feeling of uneasiness that ground his gut and made every inch of his skin dance with anxiety.

Perhaps, Ludwig had wondered, some divine force had decreed that once he'd paid for every life lost for those few awful decades that were '_entirely his fault_', he would be permitted some rest. Maybe, glances in his direction would stop being narrowed. Maybe he could enjoy a steamy beverage, lazy conversation with his family in the early evening after a delicious meal with a feeling of lukewarm contentment filling his body.

Ludwig's eyes filled once again with determination…though his hands were beyond saving now from their quivering, whom seemed to know what was coming. He reached up for a fresh bar of soap and unwrapped the paper carefully, hearing his skin stretch and crack. He was paying back his debt, everyday, just like this. Maybe in a few centuries he'll make up for all the millions of lives. Yes.

The wrapping fell into the bin with the half a dozen full bars of soap that had been discarded, and he wet his new one under the still billowing water. He still had an hour or so guaranteed of privacy in his home. He was going to make the best of it. He had plenty of life left as a nation to carry his debt and wash away every life he'd stolen.

Rational thinking or not, his hands still felt awful. Over all the pain, the sick feeling over his skin remained, even at the sharp feelings of skin splitting open from dehydration, and the bathroom was filled again with the sound of furious, passionate, methodical scrubbing.

* * *

THIS IS NOT SOME CHEAP FIC OF ANGST LEADING UP TO SAY _JEWS_ OR _NAZI_. IT IS ABOUT OCD, AND THE NAZISM IS JUST A VALID SOURCE OF GUILT AND DELUSION TO HIS SHAME AND HOW TO PUNISH HIMSELF. I hate fics that go on and on and it all leads towards him _being a nazi_ and _killing jews_. It's distasteful, it gets boring real quick, and its shoddy writing.


	4. Chapter 4

This chapter took ages. This is the second drabble idea of PTSD, which will become clear later on. Remember, there is no relation between fics!  
Plus this one is a...little bit longer...then the rest!

Enjoy!

* * *

Feliciano peered round the corner, his head peeping out from the hallway into the living room. Well, it wasn't his living room, it was Ludwig's. In Ludwig's house. That he was visiting!

He'd been staying a while, he was worried. It wasn't long after Ludwig has gained back power as a country and the vast majority of the Allies choke-hold had diminished. Feliciano didn't want him to feel too on his own, afterall, they were friends. And to be honest, Feliciano was worried Ludwig was still pretty fragile. He felt bad – it was like watching a paranoid friend recovering from hospital, or watching over an elderly person after a stroke. They were still flaky, but their pride was injured and your pitying stare didn't help.

Feliciano's curl bounced as he tried to banish the inner sadness, watching his friend sitting and reading in soothing silence in his favourite armchair. Maybe he'll bake something to ease Ludwig's worries! He always has loved cakes and confection, maybe Feliciano should give it a good old go! Yeah. If a friend ever had to give another friend a pick me up, this was that moment.

Revitalized and shoving up his shirtsleeves in determined fervour, Feliciano spun on his heel and skimpered to the kitchen.

Peeling the pages now and then was the only disturbance to Ludwig's literary sanctum. The crisp slide of worn but well-kept paper, smooth and dry under his callous, considerate hands. Reading glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, for once not assisting strained eyes to evaluate paperwork. Philosophy this time. Only when he was feeling particularly troubled did he turn to manuals. Only when he was desperate for safe, chronological order did he reach for the manuals for assemblies. Step by step, stick that there, support this, 1, 2, 3.

But no, philosophy. Thought complex and mature and obscure to normal mental processes, stretching his stiff mental muscles until warm before kneading it thoroughly like baking dough. Dough? The blonde lifted his head from his reading, nose and ears perked from the sudden thought, before catching a whiff of flour. There was a twitch at his lip that might betray a smile, and it lingered even as he returned to reading, but afterall it was barely there anyway.

Feliciano was something Ludwig had never deserved. Unconditional love, saintly patience, endless faith, kindness and hope and consideration. Sure, he was a little air-headed sometimes, but that was probably because, Ludwig imagined, Feliciano preferred to run on clouds than run on earth. Ever since they'd….well, safe to say, Feliciano hadn't been afraid to exchange bandage changing duties. They were healing together, with Gilbert too, and Romano. Healing together in the more bizarre healing circle; all suffering from utter defeat, severe frostbite, war-fear and violation of the Allies.

Sometimes Ludwig would spot Gilbert and Feliciano sitting and chatting cutely in the living room, the childish petnames of 'Feli' and 'Gil' the only things his ears picked up. Sometimes the two Italian brothers sitting in the pale sun, soaking up warmth and eating gelato, for once enjoying each others company. The same for the German duo – existing privately and far-too-close: spluttering, running hugs, pancakes, brash remarks and chiding. And when Ludwig was with Feliciano, he'd noticed his friend had sobered up considerably since….

While his old sudden affections had just appalled and smitten the spluttering German, Feliciano had toned himself down. Which both saddened and calmed Ludwig. Feliciano had a quieter manner, more nurturing. Ludwig found himself noticing the Italian boy chiding him just as much as he, making the man wonder 'is that what I'm like?' absentmindedly. Touched his hands, offered him coffee, kept the radio and television turned down to nothing more than a filling hum, knowing loud noise disturbed him.

The house quiet, humming, smelling of hot beverages, the occasional saintly taste of glazed sugar, the warmth of two comforting bodies nearby.

Ludwig peeled another page. His lip tightened ever so slightly. The house seemed to have returned to normal, but mulled and quieter. There was a lingering – a solemnity – that hung in the hair, every time they fell on the subject…and then there was a knowing change in subject.

Ludwig distantly heard footsteps, a tired exclamation of 'Feli!' responded in kind with 'Gil!' from the kitchen. There was giggling and raspy, manly laughter as pots and pans clanged as they played, followed by the spit and boil of heating water, and the glugging splash of meat being dropped inside. Feliciano squealed and complained, as obviously Gilbert had taken it upon himself to make something more manly and German than cake, and in Feliciano's honest opinion wurst tasted like shit.

Ludwig settled back to his book, turning his ears away from the chitter-chatter that would ensue. He got up and removed himself from the room to better get some peaceful isolation, moving nextdoor to his downstairs study. He slid between chair and desk and settled down once again, the smell of baking still following him tantalizingly.

As time passed, Ludwig found himself too zoned out to notice knocking at the door, which Gilbert answered. The atmosphere of the house instantly soured, bitter as a tall, built man with a brash grin and a naïve, chest-out posture. He chatted loudly, excitedly, oblivious to his change to the home, spectacles glinting over superior baby blues. He inquired loudly what was cooking.

Feliciano came out from the kitchen to see what the racket was about, and instantly wanted to shy back into the kitchen, but Alfred noticed him. Alfred exclaimed some botched attempt at greeting in Italian, obviously showing off that Romano had become so poor and business-broken thanks to the invasion of the Allies from the south, he had to become dependent on the powerful nation. Of course Alfred knew, on the inside, that he was welcoming in Italian's to feed his insatiable thirst for being needed, for being a support for those in need, for being the crutch to the frail boy he himself had pushed over.

Feliciano wasn't sure exactly how to reply and so replied weakly, grimacing clearly when Alfred barged past a scowling Gilbert and successfully knocked his broken arm. Gilbert's expression tightened and his whole jaw looked instants later from causing all of his teeth to shatter and ping everywhere like buttons. He huddled over the battered appendage, and Feliciano saw the injured hand frozen, stricken, sticking out from the sling, surely only causing him further agony.

As Alfred's height towered over the Italian, intimidating without really knowing, he conveniently missed the venomous, volatile look Gilbert sent him. Didn't understand the spitting curses. Alfred laughed jovially, slapping Feliciano on the shoulder. Feliciano winced, spying a positively murderous expression over Alfred's shoulder, and the large American walked past. The two grimacing friends exchanged glances, before hurrying after him.

Ludwig blinked out of his reverie, hearing a racket outside. His eyes returned to the continual lines of letters laid out on paper, on a book, on his desk. He looked up at his window, before turning his attention to the door. What was all the commotion for?

He could hear another German voice that wasn't his brothers, tinning and weird – and realised the TV had been turned up loud. Someone was chattering and begging meekly – Feliciano? Alerted like a hound, Ludwig sat up straight and perfectly still as he attempted to drill a hole to spy through the door with his eyes, all of his attention to listening. A raspy grunt in the background – Gilbert. Whitenoise on and off in-between several layers of voices and music – the radio had been turned right up too. And over all of this the large-mouthed chit-chat with a Western pitch, English that was botched with slang. Ludwig frowned suddenly in surprise. Alfred?

What was he doing here? Ludwig pushed himself up from the desk, commotion and chaos filling up his house, threatening to swallow it, and it was up to him to get in there immediately and put an end to it. As he gripped the doorhandle there was goofy laughter, followed with a 'You have the funniest accent!'

Ludwig shoved the door open, reading glasses slipping a little as he lurched through and stared out. His entrance – guiltily meant to be a little sudden and dramatic to gain their attention – had no effect. Gilbert was in the doorway between the hall and the living room, clutching at his arm with a rage-red face but obviously incapacitated. Feliciano was tailing after the American, pleading with him to quiet down, trying to wrestle the television remote from him as he turned up the volume ever loud, laughing.

The German man grit his teeth, hand clenching over the brass handle of his study door. What was this all about? Sure, Alfred was boisterous and oblivious to manners most of the time, but barging into his house and harassing them? It wasn't something that hadn't happened before, Ludwig's house hadn't long been free of occupation. It was none of Alfred's business to be here, laughing puzzlingly, finding the most mundane, irritating things delightful.

"P-Please, Alfred, L-Ludwig really doesn't like this much noise—"

"Haha! It's so silent I just can't take it! So when is what you're making going to be finished? I'm starved!"

Feliciano pittered after the taller American desperately as he bee-lined all over the bottom floor, all 3 of them too engrossed to notice the aggravated younger German standing in the hall. Ludwig felt his ears filling up with music and a news channel and all kinds of voices and excited screams and laughter, felt it bunching up in his head and he grunted in discomfort. He'd strictly enforced peace and quiet in his home since he could always remember (even Feliciano and Gilbert adhered to it the majority of the time), but now he far more sensitive about it. His friend and brother felt the same – all of them were battered enough to desire the restful atmosphere.

Alfred seemed visibly bereft of any bandages, patches or stitches. But by the pace he was bouncing around, it was no wonder. But, unfortunately, it only seemed to enforce his sense of indestructibility. Ludwig ground out a long-suffering sigh to ease his escalating nerves.

"We're going to need loads of party food maybe, and drink! Should I make some punch?"

Alfred longwinded garble of talk ended in a sudden halt and contemplative expression, earning a flustered Feliciano to bump into him from behind. A moment later, and Alfred turned with a finger brandished in result. "I'll make some punch."

Feliciano and Gilbert threw each other equally puzzled looks of 'Punch?' before following him to the kitchen, Gilbert hobbling behind a little.

"P-party food? Why? No, ve, I'm making something for Ludw—"

"That's right, snacks! They're go great with the fireworks!"

There was an almighty pause.

"…Fireworks?" Feliciano ventured.

"…_Fireworks?"_ Of course Gilbert sort of shouted that. Alfred gave him a surprised look, having somehow pulled a paper-wrapped burger from some pocket or orifice, and was munching on it.

"Yeah, didn't I say? I borrowed some from Yao, I reckoned you guys needed some cheering up, I hadn't seen you in ages!"

Ludwig had heard enough. He marched up the hallway to confront them.

"Aw they're the amazing things! I lit them out front, seriously, so many awesome designs!"

Feliciano looked borderline ready to have a breakdown, juggling Alfred's half-shouting, Gilbert's volatile nature on the brink of breaking, and Ludwig appearing at that very second, looking angry and like Feliciano couldn't handle the situation at all. The failed Italian then realised that he had left the cake in the oven for far too long, but Alfred was in the way. Gilbert's wurst was still boiling and frying on the stove.

Ludwig snatched off his reading glasses just he strode to the kitchen, stuffing them in his breast pocket as he walked. His heart sped up, faster and faster and hurried at his chest, overwhelming by all the commotion. He felt a little lightheaded and loose-tongued, as if he would lose him temper should this go on any longer. The TV blared a droning news channel and the radio was one some ridiculous, obscure talkshow station that had a far too excitable female host that kept screaming.

"Alfred, now look here—!" The German began, blue eyes hard and unrelenting with a fierce finger pointing in his direction.

A droning whistle outside.

All the heat drained from the blonde's body, ice filling up in its wake. His stomach dropped, his eyes widened, posture frozen and heart skipping a beat. _Oh god no._

The whistle drooped and decelerated, striking into his frightened heart like a needle, his entire body seemed to float in space for an instant and every sound was drowned away except for that terrible, terrible screech.

BOOM.

An explosion—

The sound shook the house and stuttered through the floor, rattling up into Ludwig's bones. Like the world being turned upside down and the ocean dropping on him from the sky, chaos crashed about his ears. He stumbled and he saw Feliciano cry out in fright, Gilbert had visibly jumped and a man in his house laughed in joy. His frail house _his broken house_ – crumbled, flecks of _battered_ ceiling falling onto his shoulders. A woman screamed, a man screamed, of agony, of being blown to pieces, shot in his throat. Corpses tumbled into the soil of Hell itself, saturated in blood and hopes and children's delusions of honour. Barbed wire disfigured fallen fathers and sons and carved open their mouths and backs, whistling as shells bombarbed the tortured earth, raining down like Judgement itself.

Ludwig gasped and grabbed onto anything, a surface, the counter, _the trench wall_, as another explosion happened nearby, about his ears, behind the walls, _the bombardment was here._

Ludwig looked up frantically into the wrecked skeleton of a home, passed the rimmed visor of his winged helm, fatique and injury dragging down his flesh like weights. He saw Feliciano, his injured flank, his shoulder blade fractured, the burns on his arms and the cuts on his face. Panicked eyes sought out his brother, even more injured than his stricken friend. His arm broken and lame by his side, drenched in blood and hanging in a grotesque direction, his uniform drenched in filth. His eyes went up further still.

An intruder laughing, chortling, teeth glistening and hungry, spectacles perfect and bright in the wreckage. His arm was gripping at Feliciano's injured one, unknowing, _uncaring_, pointing out the window at the _shelling_. Stars and stripes. Feliciano's face was twisted in deep discomfort at being shook, the entire scene slowing dramatically. Ludwig gazed as Feliciano's hair swam in the air as he was shaken excitedly, saw brown eyes crinkled in unhappiness at the entire ordeal. Protests amongst the screams and the endless spitting of semi-automatics.

There was shouting from his comrades now. Gilbert saw him first, eyes widened in realisation, _in acknowledgement._ Maybe they'd thought him dead. Feliciano noticed him next, drank in his presence. Ludwig expected relief, hoped for it, but then his friend wore the same expression of his brother – dreaded, dreaded realisation.

They could see he was already gone.

Ludwig was too pumped with adrenaline, his vision too narrow, to notice that they were both beginning to plead with Alfred to quiet down and pay attention; that Ludwig was panicking again. Gilbert struggled towards him, swimming in time as everything ran slow and far away, Ludwig's body encompassed in terror and determination. He wrestled with his uniform and fled back into the remains of the living room, pulling a tattered, dusty box out from under a cabinet. He wrenched open the top and pulled out a loaded 9mm Luger.

Thank god for his forward-thinking, his distrust, whatever had led him to hide this weapon rather than keep it at his waist, and he tore around and back towards the kitchen. He yelled, and the smell of burning crashed into his face, particulates rushing into his nose – the taste of charred flesh flooding his mouth.

His heart hammered savagely against his chest cavity, more fiercely than normal. The intruder spotted his weapon, and he put his hands diplomatically in front of him in shock, but one of them had clenched onto Feliciano clothes, and was accidentally _successfully _pulling Feliciano in front of himself. The blonde saw red and lifted the narrow weapon, pulling the trigger without a moment of hesitation. The crack made everyone else jump, bizarrely, _they were in a warzone_, and blood spat across the decrepit wall of the building. His victim was visibly slammed by the surprise bullet to the shoulder, and crumbled back, eyes wide.

The shelling was intensifying, and Ludwig lunged, knocking Feliciano to the floor and covering him with his body, trying to shush his loud exclamations and protests, _it's ok, it's ok, I'll get you out of here._ Feliciano was swallowed underneath his size and pinned by his weight, staring up at his eyes, glazed and fierce and trapped in Hell. Ludwig panicked at the next load of explosions, and grabbed Gilbert's leg with an almighty, deathly-strong yank to bring his brother to the floor and save him from falling debris or stray bullets. Gilbert grunted and swore loudly as his panicking, deluded brother only managed to have his head smack off of the table on the way down, rolling and clutching his face.

Ludwig shifted partly off of Feliciano to check Gilbert's sudden injury, but his nose was bleeding, he must have hit something.

"Quick, we have to get out of here!" Ludwig scrambled back up, dragging his brother and friend with him. Gilbert glanced at Alfred on the floor, groaning and disassociating from bloodloss, swallowed by the heat of the still-cooking oven and the 2 meals within. The sloppy cake that Feliciano had made for West was going black.

But there wasn't a moment longer to think as the hefty German tore through his house, dragging his sibling and friend, ignoring their protests, trying to ssh them, hissing at his brother to keep quiet, lest the enemy hear them. He dragged them back down by the backdoor, slamming his back against the wall and listening, Luger cocked and ready.

Gilbert rolled over and wheezed on the floor, mopping at the blood on his chin, and Feliciano just stared at Ludwig fearfully, watching his anxious looks, his far-away expression, continuous blinking, the determination to kill a threat and to fight a war that didn't exist anymore.

"Please, Ludwig," Feliciano began, grabbing onto his shirtsleeve for his attention. Vicious blues turned on him, before melting with concern at his friends anguish. He curled away from the wall, kneeling down to hold onto Feliciano in turn and lowered the Luger to listen to him. "Please, it's ok! Please calm down, let me go and turn things off and call an a-ambulance—"

Ludwig looked puzzled. "Feliciano, there isn't time for an ambulance. The field hospital is too far away. We're on the outskirts of a town, and the hospital may have been hit."

Seeing this information didn't ease the shaky Italian's worries, he stole a glance and a listen to certain they were alone, before checking them both over.

Gilbert's arm was still in the sling, though the knot had loosened a little from all the tugging around, and his nose was bleeding from headbutting the table. But in Ludwig's eyes he saw the arm twisted and hanging, ripped, drenched material hiding the fact it was holding on by tendon and muscle alone. The blonde grimaced, uncertain how to go about fixing it. Maybe Feliciano was right.

"West," Gilbert rasped, spitting out blood. "Put down the gun, it's alright."

"Bruder, what are you talking about?" Ludwig inquired irritably, but then realised (with a glance at the arm) that bloodloss could be making him delirious. He set his face and held his brother's shoulder bracingly. "Can you stand? Can you walk? We can't stay in the same place for too long."

Ludwig's calm was a façade, was an illusion of calm even to himself as the dreamworld swam around him, burning flesh and whistling bombs and sputtering weapons over an endless garble of the dying. He had to function, he had to cope. He had two injured allies, he was somewhere in a battled town and no communication. He didn't know where the rest of his regiment was, didn't know whether they were even alive.

First things first – they had to find a safe, secure area to hold out, away from the enemy. If similar enemies are nearby, they sure would have heard the crack of the foreign weapon in his hand, and would come to investigate.

The shelling seemed to have let up, which was both a miracle and a disaster – realistically it provided good cover, but it was making him feel increasingly frazzled. His nerves were given a slight reprieve as he stole a glance out of the window outside, searching frantically for any enemies in his path. Seeing none and the shelling slowing, Ludwig seized handfuls of material from the clothes on his friends fronts and yanked them to their feet, shoving the backdoor open with a slam of his back, the lock snapping and the ping of metal scattering on the floor. It crashed against the outside of the house and swung back into the frame.

His brother and Feliciano were chattering needlessly in his ears again, complaining, asking for him to slow down as he ploughed away from the house. Assuming it was simply fear, he discarded it, eyes unseeing of his own land, seeing nothing but tortured earth speared with metal shrapnel and defeated clumps of debris. His throat went dry and his stomach stirred with upset at the flecks of blood patches staining his rotten landscape sight. He struggled a swallow past the knot in his neck, before stamping across the wasteland, blind to fact he did not have Reich regulation armyboots on, but the only shoes he had that weren't reserved for work. He didn't have any equipment, any uniform, and neither did the two injured persons he dragged with him, not to the exaggeration that he thought. The three of them struggling unnecessarily through the land behind the house blindly, in home attire, was bizarre.

"Ah, Ludwig!"

There was a male cry and Ludwig shot the voice a look of alarm, Luger raising, messily lining his sight with the barrel – finding it resting on Roderich. The three of them stopped, Ludwig looked at them with outrageous confusion, trying to compute their presence in this warzone.

"Ro-Roderich…what are you doing here…?" He called weakly, clearly mystified, before getting back into form. "Quickly, get out of here, it's dangerous!"

Roderich stared from across the way, having come around the side, and Ludwig was further perplexed as a flustered Elizaveta ran around the corner to join him. Ludwig gaped – he already had two injured to look after, why were they just running outside in civilian clothes?

"I heard a gunshot, Ludwig, what's going on?" Roderich called cautiously, eyeing his neighbour. His eyes were wild, his breathing ragged, the hand clutching the gun was shaking midair. A glance over the Italian, looking overwhelmed and helpless, Gilbert bleeding and cursing and trying to escape Ludwig's incapacitating but unbreakable grip. Roderich's dark eyes glittered as he tried to understand the situation, and gave them all a reproachful look. "What happened?"

"Get back inside!" Ludwig barked at them, giving the Luger a sharp wave, making Elizaveta flinch. Gilbert had started opening his mouth again and snapping at him, and Feliciano was whining and whimpering to his right.

"Ludwig, _please_-!"

"What are you doing! It's _dangerous_ out here!"

"Put that fucking thing down!-"

"Be _careful_ where you wave that!"

Feliciano was almost crying, changed his tactic as he watched Ludwig get increasingly aggrevated, gaze skittering and confusion plain and dangerous on his face.

"Please, Roderich, he's panicking!" Feliciano pleaded. "Get help!"

"I am _fine,_ Feliciano, be _quiet_!" Ludwig snapped down at the little Italian, though he instantly regretted it at the flash of raw fright on his face. But he had no patience to feel guilty now. Feliciano would understand. He also ignored the look of surprise and disapproval on the face of his older brother, feeling cornered and increasingly paranoid.

"SACRE BLÉU!"

Everyone was startled by the muffled cry, coming from inside Ludwig's house. Eyes turned on the building, Ludwig's breathing becoming increasingly ragged, his body almost vibrating from nervous, adrenaline-pumped energy.

"Ludwig…" Elizaveta gasped, looking at the frozen man. Realisation lightened her face, and she tugged urgently at Roderich's sleeve. "OH Roderich, it's like shell-shock! He's—"

The back door slammed open for a second time, a foreign man stumbling outside, eyes wide and mouth turned down and gaping, as if he'd just seen something truly awful. A head of golden locks, hands thrust forward and coated in a layer of blood. Francis stared out at them all, gasping, eyes finding Ludwig in the centre of the yard, looking like a wild animal that had been ensnared.

"W—!"

Ludwig's instincts took over and he near threw the Luger from his body with the aggression he aimed and clenched the trigger, ears filling with the second snap of a gun, nose flooding with the scent of discharge. Elizaveta screamed 'FRANCIS!' and Feliciano cried out, Ludwig looking like he'd seen a ghost as he watched his former enemy choke, clutching his stomach and tumbling into the dirt. The neighbours rushed towards the shot man, Ludwig stumbling back a step as if fighting for balance, just staring.

More people ran into the doorway and the panicking German frantically aimed again, only to have his comrades leap onto his arm and direct the bullet into the ground. Ludwig gasped and wrestled to get them off him, panicking as more and more enemy soldiers poured out of his decrepit house.

"_Fucking Kraut_!" Ludwig looked up past the two bodies trying to disarm him, seeing an infuriated Brit sprinting towards him. Elizaveta was kneeling over Francis, delirious as he lay on the floor in his own blood, panting. The Brit was flanked from behind by Vash. Ludwig's eyes saw him armed up to the teeth, very plainly carrying a deadly hunting rifle as he cautiously followed behind the Brit. He struggled anew, his strength only weighted down by his brother, suffering his jogged broken arm to keep the blonde's gun arm down.

Feliciano was crying now, two men have been shot and everyone was going to hurt his friend, who was living in a hell reserved in his head. He was going to get all the blame and the trouble all over again. It was out of control!

"Please!" Feliciano shouted breathlessly from his desperate grip. "He doesn't know what he's doing! He doesn't! Help me!"

The two sandy blondes shot the German a proper look, slowing; his unnatural panic, his own family trying to subdue him. They sped back up, full out charging as Vash slung his rifle over his back. Roderich began to run also. Ludwig only seemed to get worse.

"Feliciano, let go! Quickly, take my brother!" Ludwig cried at the Italian, torn up inside as he watched the young man crying, not taking their situation into account. He didn't want his brother and his friend to die!

The three running males bodily slammed into the threesome, sending them all sprawling into the dirt. The three men weren't known for their physical prowess, but Arthur worked on forcing Ludwig into the ground, Vash wrestling the gun from Ludwig's hand as he tried to pistrolwhip them. The floored German made a roar of effort as he undulated and wrestled with the others, confusion bright in his eyes as Roderich was betraying him. In the chaos and shouting Gilbert was wrenched out of his grip and disappeared from his peripheral vision.

"_Brother_!" He cried desperately, hand shooting out of the tangle of limbs to retrieve him, but only meeting air. Ludwig wrestled both arms around the Italian, encompassing him and pressing him urgently to his chest to protect him from the stealing hands, feeling unending sets of hands and knees and arms and legs pressing on his body to keep it down, wrenching at his arms to steal away Feliciano. Eventually the mass and throng of effort against him loosened his grip too far and Feliciano slipped through, dragged around the waist and thrown away from them.

"_FELICIANO_!" Ludwig bellowed, searching for him, snarling, frustratingly remaining pinned as he was thrown onto his front and pressed harder and harder into the dirt.

Just outside of the 4 men wrestling on the ground, Gilbert and Feliciano stood, Elizaveta a little behind with Francis. Both Elizaveta and Feliciano were sniffling. Feliciano stood with Gil, watching and feeling sicking, so awful, that he was watching it all over again, standing aside and helpless while Ludwig was harassed and frightened. He couldn't control himself, and Feliciano began noticing the Brit was getting rough. As he watched he noticed the fury start to leave Ludwig's eyes, like a switch he looked just confused and cornered, a handful of men forcing him into the earth. Real fear, defeated fear plagued his face.

Feliciano muscled forward. "Stop it! He's had enough, leave him alone!" He peeled Arthur away and defended against their efforts to swat him aside, going as far as to push Vash off of Ludwig's back. The man scrabbled around to get to his feet, but Feliciano dropped down onto his knees and cupped firmly at his face.

Hyperventilation filled the air as Ludwig sat restless and panicked, the delusion bleeding away and looking around for answers – why was he being attacked, where had all the shelling and the debris and burning flesh gone? Warmth suddenly on his face and glacier blues skittered to a halt onto the browns of a friend. Friend. He wasn't an enemy. He wasn't trying to overwhelm him. He wasn't going to hurt him.

"Calm down, calm down, Ludwig, please, ssshh, it's ok, it's ok," Feliciano whispered loudly through his tears, nodding as Ludwig stared, as if looking for permission, as if questioning if Feliciano knew what he was talking about. Feliciano shushed and stuttered and swallowed all his crying, asking the larger man to breathe, just breathe, it's ok, no one's going to hurt you. Ludwig eventually conceded and bowed his head in Feliciano's grasp, eyelids falling as if heavy, face twisting in distress and a choke, large hands lifting to touch for support on the slighter man's back. "That's it, it's ok, close your eyes. It's ok Ludwig, I'm here, it's ok, don't be scared."

Feliciano cradled his head under his chin, stroking the dishevelled strands soothingly, hands gliding down the back of Ludwig's neck, feeling him trembling and whimper as tendrils of hell tormented him just behind his minds eye. Felt his breathing hitch and catch as he fought against the fear brought on, ears ringing with the cracks of guns, of the screaming and death rattles he could no longer hear.

The crowd watched on as the Italian guarded his friend, calming him from a tormentor none of them could see, none of them could understand. After making certain that Ludwig wasn't going to kick off again, Vash picked up the Luger and wandered away to Francis to help, Arthur rushing back inside. Elizaveta had since gone to Gilbert after noticing his ragged wincing and clutched arm, Roderich kneeling by Francis as help was urgently called.

The calm after a disaster, the kind that crackled with nervous energy, descended on the world. For the moment, only Feliciano existed, and the Italian encouraged Ludwig to lie down, being dragged down with him. They curled up and rode out the lingering terrors, Feliciano's mind troubled with the repercussions, the unavoidable consequences of today. Of when Ludwig broke through his traumatized haze and realized what had happened. That he'd shot two nations only months after his first real taste of independence from occupation, of oppression, of war-guilt.

They'd just have to see. Once Ludwig had silenced and calmed down, lulled in the welcome warmth of a friend, of anyone who had actually decided to hold him, Feliciano would take them inside and let have him rest. Gilbert would need it too. He'd make sure all the blood was washed from the surfaces, that everyone had been seen to. That he could defend Ludwig while he slept, unaware and exhausted upstairs, to all the people who would inevitably demand what happened.

Feliciano pushed the cake dish into the oven. The old, burning cake had long been discarded, and the kitchen was clean once again. The windows had been opened to whisk away the smell of burn sponge and meat. It was Feliciano's job to make sure nothing was burnt or smelt burn so not to provoke Ludwig's flashbacks afterall. He closed the oven door and discarded the oven mitts on the side, his apron on the chair, moving out of the kitchen into the living room.

The TV had been turned off, the radio on a nonsensical station of unknown discussion or news, the volume so low it did not even sound like people were speaking. In fact, it was the low hum of music, but quiet as it was far away, as if there was clouds covering everything in the home. It was Feliciano's job to make sure nothing was turned up too loud to provoke Ludwig's anxiety afterall.

He walked out and ascended the stairs, moving into the main bedroom. Next door he heard the soft, rattling snore of Gilbert. There was a sizable lump resting under the covers, and he circled around the bed. Ludwig's face came into view, collapsed into his thin pillows and skin smoothed, expression at peace.

Feliciano sat on the edge of the bed and sighed. He stroked a hand over the lump that was the larger man's arm, then reached up and touched his friend's face. Eyes rolled under their lids, and eyes peeled open to reveal tired eyes in the dim light of the evening. Feliciano smiled gently, and Ludwig's mouth twitched back. A hand came up and took his to hold it, larger hand swallowing more slender fingers. The silence remained companionable, the both of them exhausted and battered, drained.

Ludwig's expression became reproachful as the silence dragged on, his brow creased a little, obliviousness of waking leaving his eyes.

Feliciano sighed again, closing his eyes for an instant to banish it. Seeing Ludwig fragile was something he would never get used to, but he was needed. Ludwig was hurting, Ludwig was all alone.

Ludwig lips straightened a little, and as if afraid, hesitantly lifted his eyes to meet the Italian's.

Feliciano placed his other hand onto the top of the others bracingly, and gave him his best supportive look.

Ludwig watched him.

He then looked down and away.

"Thank you, Feliciano."

Feliciano was surprised, watching. The guilt and confusion, the distress bubbling underneath a stubborn and persevering surface. The shame. The loneliness.

Feliciano leant down and touched their foreheads together, earning a small wince from the man underneath, shying away as if he wanted to hide, but the pillows were no such hiding place. The Italian smiled.

"It's ok, Ludwig. It's ok."

* * *

This was a lot longer than originally anticipated. But I went with the flow. I hope you enjoyed!


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